


when we have sufficiently tortured each other

by moonpiter



Category: His Dark Materials (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, alt title: marisa coulter can't pretend she doesn't like mary malone, alt title: mary malone wants to marry marisa coulter so bad for indiscernible reasons, enemies to lovers (sort of), gratuitous descriptions of marisa's appearance, princess!marisa coulter, vampire!mary malone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28845933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonpiter/pseuds/moonpiter
Summary: From the sky, it bleeds power and violence in equal measure as two sides of the same knife or a crown held by the empress. Likewise, Marisa drank from the forbidden chalice of power, now left alone and ripped open in flesh, skin, and core, sticky blood rivering down the violent lips of her betrothed, Mary Malone, sweet as nectar and sin.— or —Marisa Coulter is the Princess of the Northern Islands, and promised to wed Mary Malone, vampire and queen of inhuman creatures, all to prevent a war (and, maybe, fall in love, too).
Relationships: Marisa Coulter/Mary Malone
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	when we have sufficiently tortured each other

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! I've had this story sitting on my files as an original draft since November, a while before I discovered this amazing show and pairing, so a few things had to be altered on the original project to better suit the characters and their depictions. Also, I know the Marisa/Serafina thing at the beginning may sound exquisite or weird,,, is just that Marisa never interacts with any female character besides Mary and Lyra, so the only option for an f/f pairing I had left was with Serafina. I couldn't simply skip this first third of the fic because of its importance to fully show Marisa as a crown princess and human being and wasn't quite keen on the idea of using Asriel to portray her best friend and personal guard. Anyway, I hope you really enjoy this just as much as I enjoyed writing it and imagining Marisa and Mary as this bittersweet, arranged couple that doesn't hate each other as much as they claim to.
> 
> TW: blood, slightly graphic/kinky (?) description of a vampire bite, mentions of an angsty and in-love vampire, mentions of a sad and rebellious crown princess
> 
>   
> \- subtitles inspirations: i. sappho, fragment 1; ii. sappho, fragment 94; iii. sappho, fragment 31

* * *

**i.**

**loose me from hard care and all my heart longs to accomplish, accomplish. you be my ally.**

* * *

  
  


“ _caught in a lie,_ _pull me from this hell, i can’t be free from this pain; save me, i am being punished.”_

  
  


It’s a faintly warm night when Marisa meets violence. Silver rays of pearly moonlight cut clean through the open night sky, all tinted in one single shade of wide and unblemished black — before being torn apart by crystal-like particles of silver, glittering dots dancing in the plain width of a now wounded sky, full of moonlit blood as a price for the moon to pay for its transgression. From the sky, it also bleeds power and violence in equal measure as two sides of the same knife or a crown held by the empress. Likewise, Marisa drank from the forbidden chalice of power, now left alone and ripped open in flesh, skin, and core, sticky blood rivering down the violent lips of her betrothed, sweet as nectar and sin.

The consequences of that defiance act, although, were still unaware by the woman herself — and how she could be, when Marisa was raised to acquire, to rule. Naive thoughts sat as peaceful on the woman’s mind as her eyes were fixed on the sky of that particular night, moon just passing Mars, blue gazing at blue gazing at blue as the sweet perfume of wildflowers and summer breeze got imprinted in Marisa’s clothes.

It’s Serafina that interrupts her easeful estate of mind, during that eventful and warm night of midsummer. She can hear barely soft steps crushing dead leaves when the woman is still in the courtyard, for the Crown Princess’s personal guard and Marisa’s best friend never learned how to be silent. Not that this bothered her anyway.

After she reaches the garden, Serafina doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, she gives herself permission to look at Marisa from a safe distance — she’s always been graceful, but especially like this. Marisa is dressed in a light summer dress that was possibly too inappropriate for nightfall, exposing pale and shimmering shoulders and collarbone, like her entire skin was moonlit. Contrarily from other days, when Marisa used to wear more of golden lockets and circlets as of tradition, in that particular night she only had a golden locket glinting faintly at the dip of her collarbone, a gift from her mother during days she can hardly remember now. Marisa looks like the doomed angels Serafina saw in the Royal Family private gallery, made from marble and mankind's ruin, all white glitter skin with dashes of gold and too honeymouthed for her own sake. A cascade of dark waved hair falling beneath her shoulders, dark lashes framing dark blue eyes, smooth line of neck as tempting as a snake. Then, as Serafina approached — her always-striking smell, honeysuckle and jasmine with orange notes on top greeting the woman just as quickly as they would fade from her leather clothes come morning.

And although Marisa is almost honey-made, Serafina always thought that sweetness was like pure poison.

“Why do you always think you’re hidden in this garden?” Serafina says it, lighthearted, afraid that drawing too near will make Marisa disappear, for she’s so mirage-like. She watches — and she loves the opportunity of just _watching_ her — the other woman standing on her feet, almost as tall as herself, lips curved softly in a smile.

“I _am_ hidden, it’s just you that finds me every time,” Marisa answers in a low voice, husky and curling at the edges, the woman as sweet-voiced as the honeysuckles she smelled of. Absent-mindedly, she stepped towards Serafina until there were barely inches keeping them apart, a pair of firm arms circling her waist in a tight grip.

Breathing suddenly became harder, and the blonde woman almost forgot the reason she was there in first place — to fulfill her duty, after all, and deliver a rather important message —, Marisa’s effect on herself, a sweet spell or sorcery, is capable of making Serafina forget her own birth name as she felt that familiar coolness creeping up her skin, a desired body pressed against hers in necessity, longing. Screaming in her core, adjacent to the heart, an urgent voice remembers her that Marisa was a conqueror, a raised one. A conqueror of reigns, of people. Of hearts. Oh, especially hearts. Marisa was also a wrecker, if of nature or raised, she didn’t know. Not of reigns or people, but of hearts. Especially hearts. Thus, Serafina did what she was trained to do best and protected her heart from tempting desire ( _not that it worked anyway_ ).

“Then what brings you here after all? If you’re not interested in kissing me,” Marisa asks, half sweet this time, a fading smile on her lips before they turned into a straight line, harsh lines around the corners of her eyes. Even like this, face of a devil — an eager devil, one that yearns ( _for love, for hate, for the true touch of other skin on hers_ ) —, under the pale moonlight Marisa was all marble and temptation like the fallen angels Serafina’s seen multiple times ‘round the castle, in paintings, in statues, except— except that Marisa blended easily with all those old, wrinkled angels. Her wings bloomed fully as feathers spin around in the wind, soft and as dark as the pitch-black sky above their heads, down to Serafina’s throat was full of feathers and she’s certain that Marisa’s existence meant transgression and heartbreak in its purest form.

Serafina swallowed hard, the thought of lying to the Crown Princess tempting in the back of her mind as she felt a warm breath against the crook of her neck, much to the woman’s own despair. Then, again, she remembered— Marisa always knew when she was lying, for Serafina was raised to guard and serve, and knights never lie. _Do they?_

“The Princess Consort wants to see you in her private chambers, Marisa,” she says softly, pink and wet lips brushing the other woman’s ear before she shifts, still close enough, to stare at dark blue eyes. There’s hardness in Marisa’s gaze, a stark contrast with the delicateness of her moonkissed and glittering white features, and there’s rage, and there’s pain— pain that only a ruler would feel, pain of having to bend down to somebody else's desires. Oh, and Serafina knew damn well that Marisa _never_ bends to someone. 

“You came all the way over here just to say that Lady Malone wants to _see_ me?” Marisa says in scoff, a wicked curve in her mouth as it brushed faintly on warm, sun-drenched skin ( _even though there was no sun in the sky)_ and the smell of wildflowers, damask rose notes on top, was the only thing stopping her from bursting in rage, a peal of hysterical laughter echoing on her mind. The Princess Consort was, in fact, Marisa’s own nemesis, an antipathy formed between both of them even before their first meeting, now stronger than ever with both women living in the same castle— _Marisa_ ’s family castle, her own and peaceful world intruded by someone she didn’t want to be betrothed to, all in the name of duty. _Duty can screw itself_. “Is this a fucking joke? Tell her I’m not going anywhere.” Out of Marisa’s mouth, any word related to the Princess Consort ends up sounding like a curse. Especially when she swears. Especially when she doesn’t want to see that woman in her mother’s former apartment during her own days of Princess Consort and, sometimes, of Empress, as this was also an old tradition— the practice of keeping the two spouses in different rooms before the wedding night, when they both would be moved to a new room, _their_ room, and the new Princess Consort would take over the chambers of the former one ( _Marisa’s mother’s chambers_ ) until that.

“You look like a child calling Mary by her title, y’know? She already told us she doesn’t like it”, Serafina scolds, yet only half-hearted, as the thought of Marisa making out with somebody else — even if inevitable — lingers on her mind like some sort of ghost. A silent grief for her girl-heart already in pieces. Yet, considering, Serafina adds, “Plus, she sounded really urgent to me,” before exhaling a sharp breath. Cool lips brushed against her skin, wet tip of a tongue caressing her collarbone, a soft provocation. Then, she realizes it, warm against bare, golden skin. A smudged smile. 

“I call her this way _because_ she doesn’t like it, and especially for it,” Marisa says, and there’s no more sweetness on her voice, poison-toned, choked with a lack of composure crushing the quiet breeze of summer. The other woman didn’t know if all this rage, this harshness, came out of pettiness or out of despair or simply out of pure fear, given the circumstances of their arrangement— a duty, where Marisa’s chances of choosing someone she likes to marry were brutally taken away, as there was a crescent need of marrying her to a _corrupted_ _blood_ only to prevent a war to begin. And Marisa, too, would be corrupted by her betrothed ( _only ensuring Serafina she was a fallen angel of essence, uncorrupted, then corrupted by somebody else’s sins, a burden imposed on her to carry_ ). Marisa presses a furtive kiss to the line of Serafina’s jaw, and she knows her next words will be a mistake. And yet she says, still at the corner of the taller woman's mouth. “What’s stopping me from staying here and telling Lady Malone to fuck herself?” She sighs in a surprisingly soft breath as if preparing for her next move. As if— if letting the pain of ripping out a thick, thorn-filled, stem of rose bathed with blood ( _dripping like nectar trickling down the trees_ ) sink in. 

She doesn’t know how okay this is, how _moral_ this is. But Marisa smiles anyway when she hears Serafina’s breath falter as a single kiss is pressed in the corner of her mouth. Then, another one, full mouth. A teasing line of teeth skirts over Marisa’s bottom lip and all of her thoughts still to a tight, warm blank.

“Why do you insist on kissing me even though you’re promised to her?” Serafina asks, mid-kiss, fitting a palm against the other woman’s chest, shoving her back against a tree, connecting their mouths roughly again. She doesn’t need an answer, she doesn’t _want_ it. Not now, not as she felt her heart ache and sink carelessly inside her chest, wet mouth full of evil blooming red against her own.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Marisa, honeytoned, says on a muffled breath, for her hands were too busy tugging carelessly at the collar of Serafina’s shirt, almost hard enough to hurt the side of the woman’s neck, far enough to sweep her mouth along exposed golden skin, down the column of her throat. The moon presses the lines of Serafina’s shadowed collarbone, the curl of Marisa’s back. Then, Marisa stares at Serafina like she’s committing her to memory, all sunstone with no sun to show for it. “How many promises did you ever get to fulfill?”

* * *

**ii.**

**and wolven garlands, made of flowers, around your soft throat.**

* * *

  
  


_“kiss me on the lips, a secret between the two of us deeply poisoned by the jail of you.”_

  
  


“Thought you weren’t coming, Your Highness,” Mary says, low-pitched and husky, candied wine-like voice— a voice able of inebriating one’s senses the same way alcohol does. Oh, and Marisa, too, would be drunk if she didn’t hate the woman standing there with an intensity that didn’t quite match the alcohol in her voice. The sovereignty of her title sounds like a scoff coming from Mary’s poisoned mouth, a devilish upward curve in lips red as the blood she has drunk from years down to that very fateful day. There was also a delicate warmth embracing her translucent body, all silvery-white marble and _barely-human_ flesh, whilst Mary strides closer and closer to the Crown Princess, shadow flickering under candle lights. Five feet away, one foot away, five inches away. An inch away. Then Marisa’s in front of her and the dark blue of her eyes is the only darkness in the world to exist. Mary tries to reach her hand and caress Marisa’s cheek, only to have it stopped halfway through, a tight grip ‘round her wrist. Strong hands for an ordinary girl, though the Crown Princess is more than that — strong hands of a girl with fragments of heart on fire.

“Are you happy?” Marisa asks, and there’s no mildness in her tone— still, she’s a woman honeytoned, which all words taste like honeysuckle venom, kind or harsh meaning. Mary doesn’t flinch nor move, despite a pair of glaring harsh eyes, and sees a pool as she looks down, and she could drown, maybe, in the cold of her. The Crown Princess, although made of marmoreal silver and moonflowers, was dark paint all over: black nails, ebony hair. Obsidian wings. And Mary’s never seen angels in flesh and bones, still, there's a steady, steady burn Marisa kept sheathed under her skin, and she could easily imagine the other woman in any painting of angels — fallen ones, pure ones, saving ones — she’s seen throughout her entire life, all the world curled around her wings in a dim frame. Except that Marisa was a lost one. A lost angel inside the maze leading to heaven, encaged by her own wings, plummeting down the void of doom, for Marisa’s everything in one pristine body ( _apple, temptation, snake_ ). Evil bloom of nightfall feathers, apple-red lips and silky curve of neck. And she was born to inherit, and she was born to rule. And she was born to ruin. It requires a sacrifice to escape though, twilight tinted wings cut and hand-given to Mary herself, as Marisa laid breathing and quiet, blood-drenched palms lost in the woman’s gentle coolness while smoothing her feathers, and the weight in her hands has never been lighter and has never felt heavier. “May I go back to my room now?” Marisa’s bossy words are unmatched with bleak, fearful eyes, Mary realizes. And there’s pain, too, in those eyes, and she thought that _ah, maybe only wingless angels understand it_.

“Did you really think I would make you come all the way to my room ‘cause I wanted to _see_ you?” Mary falters a little, face’s close to a scowl, yet she briefly forgets their manicured antipathy, a single thought crossing her mind. _Yes, I would make you come all the way over here because I wanted to see you_. _Yes, I wanted to see you, for you’re so beautiful I’m jealous of the moon and how it kisses your skin. Yes, I wanted to see you because I like you, and want to kiss your skin the same way the moon does, but I’m afraid and never loved before._ A single blush creeps up to her collarbones, and Marisa’s gaze is dark, inquisitive. “I need to test something with you, to check if our compatibility is enough for our wedding, Marisa.” It was the first time she didn’t call the woman _your highness_ , and Mary’s mild voice is airy, curling softly at the letters of the woman’s name in a near-whisper, as she’s highly aware of Marisa’s hitched breath, then, sharp inhaling alongside a shiver in her spine. Faint red blossomed on top of Marisa’s cheeks and tip of ears, but both women decided to ignore it— for their sanity's sake. 

There’s a pause, a piercing sound of awkward silence. Whatever words Marisa wanted to say stops before her lips, breaks in her throat, and she just stares straight ahead at Mary’s sapphire eyes. As if she very much knew beforehand the casualties fated to happen to her — to _them_ , no escape even for the luckiest of ones — in case that her blood didn’t suit Mary’s organism adequately, and the results would be abhorrent. A pair of profound holes in Marisa’s neck, a broken dam drenching blood until there’s no more fluid to expel from it. Poison creeping up the insides of Mary’s veins, a slow agony made of short breathing and generalized pain, leading its ways to unconsciousness and obliteration. In need of tearing apart the yielded silence, “Fear makes you even prettier, _darling_ , but I don’t want to be accused of royal murder in case you die mid-vows after my bite if we follow tradition,” despite the condescending bitterness under candied and warm voice, Mary is softspoken, preoccupation threatening to break through her words as though her lips are made of cracked stained-glass, anticipating its own disruption.

“Honestly, dying might be a better option than this,” mortified words come out of Marisa’s strawberry-colored lips, pale and gleamy shoulders straining haltingly, causing the golden locket nested in the woman’s collarbone to shimmer faintly beneath bright moonlight. A shift in Mary’s aching, guiltfilled core stops her from feeling offended, for Marisa’s hostility attunes her to everything: she’s an angel, wingless, encaged, _blindfolded_. Fate’s imposed on her as a piece of dark fabric perpetually covering her eyes, once strong hands of a girl lying tied behind her back, and Marisa has no other choice left aside from submerging in the lake of Mary’s sins until she’s drowning in corruption and unholiness, newborn child of eternity ( _and eternity is a cruel mother_ ). Death wasn’t, too, an effective escape from eternity’s cruelty, since vampires are bound to their victims when they die, an afterlife curse — at least, it’s what hundreds of stories both of them have heard throughout their lives say, and Marisa would be Mary’s one and only victim, forever connected by blood. Myth or not, Mary hopes to experience it centuries later, when she gets bored of fighting against death, as she’s never met anything as sweet as Marisa, and it’s just so. Easy to paint her anywhere, a beautiful person thought into any beautiful place ( _even in purgatory and its gloomy architecture_ ). “And what happens _if_ we’re compatible? I’ll still have a pair of bleeding holes in my neck.” There’s hurry in Marisa’s words, anxious lilt, and she startles at the slight thought of blood rivering down her skin.

As of carefulness, it wouldn’t be a full bite since the chances of Marisa dying _if_ their blood types aren’t compatible would be even higher, Mary’s teeth would sink in the other woman’s soft flesh only enough for blood to come out of it — _at least_ , it’s what wine-like voice says, and Marisa is scared of being manipulated by its smoothness, secretly drunk of her alcohol and venomous sweetness as Mary explains her intentions. “Yet, I need your permission to do this, Marisa,” she says softly, unfazed gaze falling upon Marisa’s features, moonlit skin glittering even more as the moon reaches its peak in the sky, girl-hands and girl-lips trembling faintly. A bitter smile cracks its way to Marisa’s mouth, sweetened laughter full of sarcasm.

“Ah, _now_ you want my permission? You’re funny, treating me like I’ve always been your precious royal highness, _Mary_ ,” resented words come out of Marisa’s lips, and they crack and falter, and strain, voice emptied of its familiar sweet nectar flourishing the edges of words — she just wants Mary to snap at her already, her mind failing in understanding the logic behind the Princess Consort unusual calmness despite all her offenses and aggression. She wants Mary Malone to break and fall and bend. And bend over her lap, too, for Marisa wants more than anything to teach the woman how to treat an empress accordingly. Yet, heartbeating deep in her core, Marisa also realizes that Mary was as forced as herself to fulfill a duty left by somebody else, a duty that had nothing to do with her — a duty she could’ve said _no_ , could’ve said _screw the northern lands_ , after all the war surely wouldn’t be as far violent as in her own kingdom. Still, Mary, the one with wicked blood, queen of inhuman creatures, showed more humanity than Marisa would ever be capable of by sacrificing her own freedom over the prosperity of entire kingdoms and villages, which most of them she barely knew. She had nothing else to lose once it was mandatory that Mary would have to leave her lands, her kingdom, her _family_ , abandon all things she was familiar with, to move to Marisa’s own place, and she was aware of that. 

“You _are_ my royal highness, Marisa,” Mary’s counterstatement is nearly immediate, eagerness threatening to crack from her voice, almost-shivery words coming out of honeyed, melting lips — and she has to fight the urge of snapping at Marisa and her stubbornness, of showing how much of a worse, annoying brat she could as well be ( _after all, it was a game the two of them could play_ ). Although, the thought of Marisa, wingless, her feather-darling, forced to turn into an immortal and sinful creature lingers on Mary’s mind like a ghost, fault haunting her, core burdened of guilt, for this possibly was the Crown Princess last duty as an empress, a duty she’d never imagined to fall upon her marble shoulders. Harsh corner of eyes softens slowly, and Mary exhales a sharp breath she didn’t realize to hold until her lungs were burning and her ribcages were tough. “May I have your permission, Your Highness?” Trembling lips indulge softheartedness to blossom over the ominous pride Mary’s always carried in her voice, no matter how delicate or candied it sounded — she always kept boldness sheathed in her words like a weapon when even during humiliating circumstances it was impossible to catch any slight stumble in the woman’s conduct. Thus, for the first time in her life, Mary Malone _bent_ to someone.

Mortal silence falls upon both women, draped over two bodies — like a silky robe of realization — standing at each other loneliness and more than conscious of the fact they were the only ones in the room ( _yet the two of them don’t know if acknowledging that was a blessing or curse_ ). After considering Mary’s suggestion and how worthy was risking her own life over a war repeatedly in her mind, the chance of ending up dead before her wedding becomes somehow comforting for Marisa, as she wouldn’t be converted into a vampire — at least, it’s what she restates to herself like a chant or mantra, heart beating anxiously over the thought of Mary’s warm lips pressed against her bare skin and caressing her neck, hands holding her tight and still, causing her cheeks to bloom a shade of phantom red. “Fine, but make it quick,” her words don’t come out as she’s imagined, but softer and shivery, and Marisa lets the sudden realization that she’s scared of liking it more than it hurts sink in.

Then, soft and cool hands guide Marisa to a bed she still refuses to accept as Mary’s, despite bringing silky bed sheets closer to her face and being greeted by a familiar scent of rose and ginger. Her gaze found the other woman just in time to catch a glimpse of a minimum, fading smile on her red lips, as Marisa sat on the edge of the mattress, quieter than she’s ever been in her entire life. Her fingers tug tightly on white fabric, and Marisa commits the vision of Mary kneeled before her to memory as her most respectful act towards an empress since her first day of Princess Consort — even though Mary kneeled for the sake of making things easier for both of them, slender figure adjusting between Marisa’s legs and directly facing marmoreal collarbones and smooth curve of neck. Mary draws closer to glittering skin as if she was attracted by some sort of unknown, mystic gravity adjacent to Marisa, the entire Universe diminished to a single pair of obsidian wings full of feathers spinning around just like tiny stars. And Mary spun around, too, lips orbiting the crook of Marisa’s neck before crashing down and finally meeting pink-ish and velvety flesh. There’s a soft sigh after Mary presses a kiss on the side of Marisa’s throat, hands traveling down her sides in a gentle grip as she fought against the crescent temptation of burying her teeth on the other woman’s neck, offering no other choice than the two of them trapped forever in a curse — yet, a hand brushing Mary’s ginger hair so tenderly stops her from giving in to years of accumulated instinct, and she lets a small moan out. 

Mary takes Marisa on her mouth like an oath, sharp teeth piercing slowly through thin and lush flesh, nerves blooming under her skin whilst a whine reaches the Princess Consort’s dazed senses loud enough to remind her it’s Marisa Coulter, the future empress of a reign that wasn’t hers, she’s biting. In Mary’s mouth, Marisa becomes, then unbecomes, and becomes again, an immaculate mess of now heated skin, tender flesh, and sticky blood, weeping down: lips, mouth and tongue. Ah, and Mary makes sure to lick each drop of crimson fluid that rivers down Marisa’s pierced neck, caressing the curve of it and the sides of her throat, for her blood is as sweet as divine nectar. It’s the first time Mary sees the other woman unravels this way, chest going up and down, wet and pink lips parted as a single choked moan came out, and she’s just too much for her — Marisa’s flushed face, full of an expected embarrassment of liking it _too much_ and eyes afraid of meeting Mary’s gaze.

Yet, Marisa meets Mary’s blood-stained lips as they pressed a kiss in her mouth, gentle and unprobing, a confession, theirs, in the quiet hum of the room and under pearly rays of moonlight.

Lust painted them technicolor.

* * *

**iii.**

**fire, delicate fire, in the flesh**

* * *

  
  


_“and she too was a tempter; she, too, was linked to the second, the evil world with which I no longer wanted to have anything to do.”_

  
  


“What are you doing?” Mary’s voice is lower, huskier, as inebriating as strong wine when muffled by pink and wet lips eager than hers, warm tongue caressing her upper lip before their mouths share another kiss. The taste of honeysuckles and iron causes Marisa’s spine to shiver, hands tight and still at the other woman’s fire-like strands of hair.

“I’m letting you kiss me,” she says in a single sharp breath, grinning hazily and flushed. Pain stings from her neck, red-tinted, yet it isn’t enough to stop Marisa from pulling Mary up ( _for she never bends down_ ) until she’s facing the other woman closely, staring straight ahead into eyes clearer than sea with none of the ease of seeing a woman, and all the silent awe of looking at a landscape. Then, Marisa presses two fingers on Mary’s lips, runs them through, the sensation of holding a rosebud arises within her and she kisses Mary where the ghost of her touch rests on.

They meld at each other with such quiet ferocity, the feeling heightens when Marisa tugs Mary’s silky strands of hair as somewhere along the way she had set herself down on Marisa’s lap — and she yearns, and she’s afraid, scared of forgetting herself if she stays another minute inside that room, if their mouths connect again. There’s eagerness in Marisa’s touches, not the same type of eagerness she had when she was age six and waiting for winter and its dancing snowflakes or when she was age sixteen and kissing her best friend for the first time, body trembling whilst a pair of tender lips caressed hers back. It’s the eagerness of someone lost in a maze, at the perimeter of something boundless with heaven out of sight and nothing but a human body left to help her escape. Marisa sided with a demon named Mary, one with marmoreal skin and saccharine poison lips, who helped cut her wings off, turning Marisa into a statue in eternity’s garden much like herself. Until now, they were a myth kith and kin had perused upon meeting each other. Bodies of possibilities had always accompanied the very idea of them, spurred on by the intensity of their exchanges, whether it be through gaze or banter. Tonight, in this blood shower, Marisa holds the memory to her heart reveling the metamorphosis in their relationship, once a myth, now realized

“You know there’s only one fate left for us, dear,” Mary touches her fingers on the hem of Marisa’s dress, traces it, before lifting it so skin lands on skin. The act of brashness makes Marisa shiver, in turn making Mary explore the span of her thigh with the knowledge that Marisa lets herself be reeled in by touch alone. “We’ll live forever, die as one together as lovers,” and Marisa’s receptiveness was so taut, if Mary plucked it, it would make a glorious sound.

“We shall see, Mary,” she says, smooth and still at the woman’s mouth, tasting honey and blood as their lips brushed softer than the remaining feathers to fall from once dark and full wings. “ _After we have sufficiently tortured each other._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I really hope yall enjoyed and liked it just as much as I did! Feel free to ask me any questions about it, be it about the plot or the characters, or just say anything in general, I'd appreciate your comments ♡  
> Also, just to explain a bit more in-depth the one line in which Mary said it was better to test and see if Marisa's blood was compatible with hers, it's simply basic biology and the ABO system. In that case, Mary's and Marisa's blood types needed to match (by being the same or by Marisa's blood type being O), and it did, hence why Mary didn't have any side effects by tasting it.  
> Also, if any of you would like to talk a bit more about the fic or just chat, feel free to send me a dm on tumblr (i go by @moonpiter)!


End file.
